


Making Up

by TokyoDAZE



Category: The Beatles
Genre: 1961, 1962, 1963, Enemies to Friends, F/M, Hamburg Era, M/M, Makeup, and a tiny bit of mclennon too if you squint, bc its vague, but also theres angst, but its up to the reader to determine whether paul and stu's relationship is platonic or romantic, but nah mostly mcsutcliffe, but only at the end, pretty gay tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-21 16:46:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9557768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TokyoDAZE/pseuds/TokyoDAZE
Summary: Paul’s first instinct was to get jealous. The wave of envy hit him suddenly, like a splash of cold, unforgiving water. That was normal of him whenever he saw Stu. But now he fought the idea. /Fuck, no! He looks like a bird! You can’t be jealous of someone who looks like a bird./But he was just lying to himself. Stuart gazed at him, a simper wafting from his glossy, cute lips. Paul stared in awe. He expected the bassist to look like a bird. Stu did not look like a bird at all. He just looked like a boy with makeup.And he found himself leaning forward towards Stu, hands clutching the edge of the sink tightly.Stuart nodded.And lifted the tube of lipstick to Paul’s lips.And smiled as he glossed them gently.***Stuart decides to try makeup. Then Stuart decides to try makeup on Paul. They resolve their differences.Basically, this is the story of why there are rumors that Paul wears mascara. Bet you never thought Stu was involved, huh? Suckers.***The Beatles, Stuart Sutcliffe, and Astrid Kirchherr belong to themselves. This story is not supposed to be perceived as factual or historically accurate. Don't fucking sue me.





	

**_(:3 」∠)_ ɴᴏᴡ ʟᴏᴀᴅɪɴɢ...**

 

Stuart slowly leaned forward over the sink, the washroom mirror reflecting his subtle movements. The eyeshadow brush trembled slightly in his bony hand, but not so much that it looked bad on him. It was pretty good and paired with the light mascara and eyeshadow, the artist didn't look half bad. He certainly didn't feel half bad, either. He could try lipstick next if he dared, but it felt like a stretch—too risky, even if he was gifted with the artist’s hand. Maybe some other time.

He had gotten curious. Astrid was at work and so was her mother, so Stu had been left alone in the house to paint and play and be merry with himself. At some point, perhaps about a half-hour before, he was ransacking the house for tools to use for his next piece and whilst in the washroom, he pulled open a drawer stuffed with cosmetics of all sorts—Astrid's, he knew.

Astrid herself never did go over the top with her makeup—just as much as she liked, which was very simple and just enough to cover up the smallest of blemishes. Makeup or not, he loved her all the same.

Stuart had been told all his life that it was prohibited that he so much as glance at such trivial items—after all, they were only for girls, and Stuart was most certainly not a girl. But, standing there undisturbed in the washroom, he saw there was something very alluring, almost seductive about the tools he was not to touch. A medium that opened up new possibilities, new masterpieces. The forbidden fruit.

Suddenly, a half-hour had came and went and he had decked himself out all prettily and not once did he try to stop himself. Stuart stared into the mirror, fascinated with just how different he looked with the enhancements applied. The dark circles under his eyes that normally plagued him seemed less threatening now and he felt his features were accented nicely by the shading—his good traits were more prominent, more colorful and cute. Really, he would only be more satisfied if there was a way to cover up his freckles, which he personally thought were awful and ugly.

“But you look like a fuckin’ bird now!” Stu burst out laughing at himself, somewhat dazed at this revelation. The whole ordeal was suddenly very, very funny. He looked funny. He felt even funnier. “You’ll be ugly no matter what. An’ now everyone’ll laugh at you an’ think yer’ queer.”

Not that it mattered much to him. Stuart was used to being laughed at. He minded, of course. His glasses and style of dress made him look lopsided amongst his peers at the Art College. His height encouraged snickers from the more built teds around the Reeperbahn. And he could never forget: when Astrid had first styled his hair into the Exi cut favored over his normal Jimmy Dean-’do, John had collapsed, howling with laughter at how “fuckin’ barmy” he looked. His own best friend whom he trusted his soul with had laughed, laughed at him. Stu understood Paul’s sneers—they hated each other anyway—but for John to betray him like that… he wouldn’t admit it, but it did sting.

 _Paul._ Stuart leaned back thoughtfully against the wall behind him, staring blankly into the mirror. Paul would look good in makeup, wouldn’t he? Despite his masculine figure, he was a very pretty boy, blessed and cursed with wide doe eyes, fine eyebrows, and plush lips. If he were a girl, he would definitely be a popular hit with the teds. Unfortunately, like Stu, Paul was a boy, and boys weren’t allowed to be “pretty.” Stuart almost pitied him—the nancy was always being jabbed at because of his appearance. The artist knew what that was like. It was unfair. He couldn’t choose how tall he was. Paul couldn’t choose how pretty he was.

Stu leaned forward again, closely examining his own face. Of course, even if he did sympathize with his bandmate that way, he still hated Paul. That’s right—he felt sorry for Paul. He could care less about how Paul looked. Paul was mean to him. Paul always acted nice until the audience had turned their backs and then suddenly he would yell at Stu for whatever stupid reason he could scrape up.

The exi laughed again. “Maybe tomorrow, I’ll come into rehearsal wearing a skirt,” he murmured. He meant it as a joke, but he couldn’t help feeling curious about what the others would say. _They’d make fun, of course,_ he smiled at the instinctual guess. _They might even kick me out of the band. And I might get pounced by a fairy if I let my guard down. Hell, even now, he looked good enough to eat. Do I really want to go out tonight looking like this?_

Well, if he didn’t get kicked out or beat up or raped, there was the very obscure possibility that people might actually take a liking to his new looks. He was innovative, creative, willing to learn new things, even if people would sneer at him now. Stuart knew he had the guts to do that. Unlike Paul, he thought and grinned as he reached for the tube of lipstick.

  
**_(:3 」∠)_ ɴᴏᴡ ʟᴏᴀᴅɪɴɢ...**

  
As expected, Stuart came home with several knives in his back and a few jabs in his side due to his face. Fortunately, none of it mattered because Astrid had been there and when she saw him she let out a small gasp of pleasant surprise and then proceeded to smother him in kisses and affection. Throughout the entire show she had glowed with pride and was still doing so as she returned home on his arm. Stuart smiled fondly. That’s right: Astrid mattered more to him than anyone. Especially more than Paul.

The photographer had helped him clean up the makeup and then they went to bed together. She was asleep in his arms within moments, but he would be awake a while longer. Restlessness rested in his mind, nurturing ideas, potentials, possibilities. This night was a concerning one for him, though. Normally, he would expect the storm of thoughts to be surreal, laced with existentialist concepts, something he could sew into his next canvas. But he had only one question on his mind.

_What would Paul look like with makeup on?_

The thought, so plain and simple and painfully stupid, sat there rooted foolishly in his mind, irking him to no end. _Why the hell…? Why the hell this?!_ Stu gritted his teeth and glared at the dark ceiling, itching endlessly. Of all things, why something as blatantly perverted as Paul with makeup?

In the end, he was barely able to sleep that night. When he felt the sun peek out from behind the curtains, he was certain of what he was telling himself. It was insane. The guitarist would certainly hate him even more for it. But if he never got the answer, he would surely never be satisfied. Ever.

_What would Paul look like with makeup on?_

Only one way to find out.

  
**_(:3 」∠)_ ɴᴏᴡ ʟᴏᴀᴅɪɴɢ…**

  
_This is a terrible idea. Why am I going through with this?_

A few days had passed since Stuart had first tried on the makeup. In the meantime, Astrid had taken to teaching him all she knew about how to apply it correctly and which colors worked best on him and everything. And he had become spectacular in decorating himself. So much so that he came to the club every night like that. Nobody had jumped him yet, so he must have been doing something right, no?

It was about an hour before their first segment. Just enough time to drag Paul back to Astrid’s place, then get the job done and get back to the Reeperbahn for their gig. It was also just enough time to drag Paul back to Astrid’s place, then have him freak and proceed to knock Stuart’s lights out. Perfect. What could go wrong?

 _What couldn’t?_ Stuart thought dreadfully as he approached the room where the band slept. Paul was probably in there now—alone, hopefully, or the conversation he was about to propose would immediately turn even more sour than it already had the potential to.

Alone, miraculously. There on the lower bunk sat James Paul McCartney, strumming his guitar and mumbling the words to Long Tall Sally. Stu’s throat felt dry as he approached the musician tentatively.

Before he had the chance to say anything, Paul initiated for him. “Well, look who’s early to work _for once?_ ” The younger sneered. Stuart groaned inwardly. This was obviously not off to a great start. “Surprised, since last night you did come in _thirty minutes late_ for our first part with that shite caked all over yer face. And now you’ve got none of it? Don’t worry, Stu,” Paul turned his head and scoffed. “You’ll always be ugly no matter what.”

“Thanks,” Stu managed to reply, biting back an equally harsh retort. _I have to be nice if I want any chance at his cooperation._ “A-about that… I need yer help.”

“Why would I help you?”

“I, er… we can make a deal. You do this, I do something f’r ya in return.”

“I’d like you to go kill yerself.”

The bassist flinched. This was hard.

“Please, Paul. I just need this one thing. I’ll do anything.”

“Disgusting…” The guitarist grimaced. “I hate the sound of yer voice. You better fuckin’ leave me alone after this, ya hear? What the ‘ell d’you want?”

“I need you to come to Astrid’s place with me. There’s something I need you—”

“Why?”

“Please. It’s, er, an art project…” He didn’t like to lie, but it was sort of true. And Paul would never agree to come if he knew what Stu really wanted.

“Knowing you, we’ll come back late. No fuckin’ thanks, Stuart.”

“Please!”

The guitarist gave him the most disgusted look. “Will you shut up if I do?”

“Yes. Anything.”

“Fine. Fuckin’ fine. Yer’ so pathetic.”

  
**_(:3 」∠)_ ɴᴏᴡ ʟᴏᴀᴅɪɴɢ...**

  
The walk to Astrid’s home was uncomfortable and tense. Stu walked ahead of Paul, glancing back every now and then to make sure the guitarist was still following him. Whenever he did, Paul shot back at him with a cold, hair glare.

“Come up here, into the washroom.” Stuart tried to relax as he led Paul upstairs. “Astrid’s mum said to keep these materials here because she doesn’t want me to make a mess in the house…”

“If you try anything funny, I’m kickin’ you out of the band, y’ hear?”

“Nothing of that sort.” Stuart shook his head, sighing as he dug through the drawers. He had a headache. “Hey, listen, I’m sorry if you don’t like this, I-i promise I’ll make it up to you.”

“What’re you on about?”

The artist took his makeup out and set it around the sink. Paul stared, confused. Stu picked up a tube of mascara and turned to him.

“If you don’t like how it looks on you, you can wipe it off.”

And Paul realized.

Stu lifted the brush, leaning towards him. The musician snarled, tensing up and swiping at him. “Stay away from me! Freak! Don’t you fucking touch me!”

“No, please! Just this once, I promise!”

“N-no…” Paul glared, hands clenched tightly and face pale. Stuart took a step back, tightening his grip on the tube of mascara as if somehow it would protect him from that guitarist, who began to raise his voice and yell at him. “H-how dare you. How dare you! I know you hate me, Stuart! But how could you say something like that?!”

How dare you? Stuart stared at him, feeling his head spin. _Say something like that? B-but I didn’t say anything!_ This was becoming too, too confusing. What did he do? Where did he go wrong? He hadn’t predicted this at all. He had foreseen yelling, of course, but… _How dare you?_

“I know, okay?! I fuckin’ know what I am!” Paul’s voice cracked and Stu felt a shiver grab at his spine. “I’m pretty! I’m a fucking nancy boy! I look like a girl! People shove me and ask me ‘How much?’ as if I were a fucking slag! I fuckin’ know, Stuart! I fuckin’ know! So how dare you be like them?! I liked you because you never did that even if I hated you! I thought you hated me for more than just how I looked and then you go and pull this shit! I hate you, Stu! I fucking hate you!”

 _Dizzy. So unbelievably fucking dizzy._ Stuart stumbled and backed up against the wall behind him. In the moment of silence that wavered in the post of Paul’s screams, it felt the world was spinning around the two of them, ensnaring them in the eye of the storm and trapping them here together in Astrid Kirchherr’s washroom and he was so unbelievably _dizzy._

But he understood now.

Stuart’s vision gradually returned to him, serenity seeping back into his tired joints. Through the headache, he could see Paul in front of him, red-eyed, glaring, trembling violently. It looked as if he was on the verge of crying.

“For Chrissakes, stop that. Tears and mascara don’t mix.”

Paul shot back at him with a glare. “Yer’ not putting that shite on me face, y’hear? Stay away from me.”

“You’re such a pussy. Here, look, it’s not that bad.” Stuart limped over to the mirror, leaning on the sink. “I’ll show you.” He brought the brush up to his face, carefully applying it to himself with great precision. His hand was barely shaking, despite the emotions that throbbed through veins all over his body.

He turned back to Paul. “See? It makes your eyelashes all nice and thick.” And fluttered them just to show it off. The guitarist just stared back in awe and disgust.

“That’s gross. Like hell I’m doing that.”

“Shut your mouth, Paulie. I’m just letting you watch.”

“... Why?”

Stuart shrugged and picked up his eyeliner. “I dunno. I guess since yer’ not going to let me put this on you, you can just go back and get ready for the gig. I’ll be late, but that won’t surprise you, will it? Bye, Macca.” And turned away from the musician.

“N-no, wait!”

Stu turned back around.

Paul’s eyes were wide, his body frozen for a moment before he regained composure and fidgeted with his hands behind his back. He seemed almost vulnerable. “I’ll… I’ll stay.” Then looked and glared at Stu. “But only to make sure you get back on time, okay? I’m sick of having to fill in for you when yer’ late!”

“Don’t get yer knickers in a twist, we’ll be out of ‘ere in no time.” The bassist shrugged indifferently, his headache nearly completely dissolved as he started doing his eyebrows.

Paul wanted to shudder. _God, that was disgusting._ How could even a little twink like Stu be comfortable putting on makeup? It wasn’t as if it had never crossed his mind, of course. You couldn’t just ignore it. Not in Hamburg, where drag queens and transvestites dappled the pavement.

But this was different. Stu wasn’t from Hamburg. He wasn’t a drag queen or transvestite—at least not as far as Paul was aware. Stu wore boy clothes and had boy hair and listened to boy music and walked like a boy, talked like a boy, laughed like a boy, boy, boy, boy…

Stu just glanced at him as if to say, _Who fucking cares? I look great._ Paul noticed his eyebrows were damn fine. Very damn fine and Stu started working on his eyeliner and eyeshadow and then he looked even finer. _Fuck._

Paul’s first instinct was to get jealous. The wave of envy hit him suddenly, like a splash of cold, unforgiving water. That was normal of him whenever he saw Stu. But now he fought the idea. _Fuck, no! He looks like a bird! You can’t be jealous of someone who looks like a bird._

But he was just lying to himself. Stuart gazed at him, a simper wafting from his glossy, cute lips. Paul stared in awe. He expected the bassist to look like a bird. Stu did not look like a bird at all. He just looked like a boy with makeup.

And he found himself leaning forward towards Stu, hands clutching the edge of the sink tightly.

Stuart nodded.

And lifted the tube of lipstick to Paul’s lips.

And smiled as he glossed them gently.

 _Gross._ Paul tensed, fighting back the urge to smack his bandmate. It was so incredibly gross. But he stayed still, suppressing his disgust.

And Stu finished applying lipstick to Paul’s face so he stood back, admiring his work, then reached for the eyeliner and eyeshadow. “Close your eyes. Don’t flinch or you’ll mess it up. You can’t afford to ruin this for yourself now.” The guitarist shuddered inwardly, but kept still. _What if the little bastard decides to stab my eye?_

“Don’t worry. If I hurt you—which I won’t—I’ll let you punch me.” the artist replied, as if he could read Paul’s mind. But he just seemed nonchalant as he lightly traced his eyelids with a dark, casual color. It felt really strange—like a very dull needle grazing the skin above his eye, threatening to poke. But he wasn’t going to let Stu think he was a pussy, so he stayed still.

Eyeshadow felt much less stressful. Stu hummed softly as he brushed a pleasing, light gradient above Paul’s eyes. It induced a strange, tingling feeling that the musician stifled the urge to scratch. But he stayed still through it all.

“You can open your eyes now.”

Paul did, but fought the urge to look in the mirror, instead pinning his gaze at the sink. He felt ashamed. There was no way, no _fucking_ way he wanted to look at himself.

He suppressed a grimace when Stu started pencilling in his eyebrows. It wasn’t as if he needed it, but—what the hell? He looked queer enough. What difference would it make?

So finally, a touch of blush. The brush he used was ticklish and Paul didn’t like it. But in a few dusts, his cheeks had a pink tint that lightened his skin evenly.

“You look nice.” Stuart commented casually.

Paul kept his eyes on the floor.

“If you don’t like it, you can clean it off. Come on, look in the mirror now.”

And forced himself to tear his gaze to the glass.

_What the fuck?_

“Shocking, eh? Everyone’ll be turning their heads when Paul McCartney walks in.”

_What the fuck!_

“Like I said, if you don’t like it—”

“No! I want to keep it!” Immediately, Paul realized how eager he sounded and cursed at himself silently.

Stu smiled into the mirror, throwing an arm around the guitarist’s shoulder. “Look at you. Handsome as can be. Soon, all the boys in the Reeperbahn will want to show up with lipstick and eyeshadow.”

Paul wasn’t ready to admit it, but he did like it. He liked it a lot. He was already suited to be adorned, and the way the makeup perfectly accented his eyebrows, eyelashes, eyes, nose, cheeks, lips, etc. etc., really, really _fucking really_ worked on him. God, it was so great.

“ _All_ the boys? Surely yer’ jokin’! I doubt John would sport it as well as we do!”

Stuart couldn’t help but laugh at that. “Oh no, him too. Whether it looks good or not, he won’t be beat by a couple of queers!”

“Ah! You take that back!”

  
**_(:3 」∠)_ ɴᴏᴡ ʟᴏᴀᴅɪɴɢ…**

  
Paul and Stuart continued to poke japes and giggles at each other all the way to the Top Ten. People stared. Sailors pointed and snickered. _What the fuck? Who cares?_

Now that there wasn’t a brick wall infused with hate standing up between them, Paul could look at Stu clearly. Stu had a cute laugh and even though his complexity wasn’t the best, his face was very nice and attractive, especially with that god-motherfucking makeup. He had a strange way of walking and had a slight limp and his accent was soft and he was so adorable when he grinned.

Paul smiled lopsidedly as they headed into the Top Ten. Stu made lots of jokes—far from being a stuck-up artist as he used to believe. His jokes were strange and mature, but if you could understand them, they were hilarious.

 _Why did I use to hate him so much? I’ve been missing out._ The musician made a silent promise to himself that he would never try to hurt Stu ever again. They could stop fighting. They could sit together when they ate and they could practice together, laugh together, bant with each other.

They could do makeup together.

Yes. That’s so much better than fighting. What could be better than makeup?

“Where the ‘ell’ve you two been?” John growled as they sat down on the side of the stage and started tuning. They had around five minutes before their gig and people were already ordering food and drinks.

Paul simpered. “Put yer glasses on and take a good look at our faces.”

But then George walked in and he had to do a double take. Astrid followed behind, a huge grin plastered on her face.

“Woah!” George stared, slack-jawed. “Not you too, Macca?!”

“‘Not you too’? What is it?” John fumbled with his glasses for a while before sliding them on, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the sight of the two “pretty boys”. Then he, too, nearly choked on his spit. But not before regaining his composure… and starting to laugh uncontrollably. “What! God fucking damnit! Look at you two! Are you serious?”

Stuart smiled, casually resting his head on Paul’s shoulder. He didn’t mind.

“Damn right we’re serious. I’ll bet you a pound that Paul will be able to pull a bird tonight without paying a single penny.”

Paul just batted his eyes. “No need to bet. I’m fucking sure of it.”

Astrid hummed, sitting down on the stage next to Stuart, wrapping her arms around him and kissing his cheek. “So handsome, my Stuart! I am so happy. Play good tonight, ja? You also, Paul!”

“You can’t be serious.” John rolled his eyes, taking his glasses off and shoving them in his pocket. “If you get raped or jumped, don’t come cryin’ to me, ‘right? I don’t wanna be the one who saves the fuckin’ _nancy boys._ Leave me out of it.”

“No need to worry. We’ll fight with our looks.” Stuart pressed a kiss against Astrid’s cheek and stood up, picking up his instrument. “Okay, we’re up in a few. Come on, everyone!”

Everyone else filed after him. George smiled, hugging his guitar. He started headed for the stage, but then stopped and turned to Astrid. His eyes were wide and filled with curiosity.

“Asser, luv, do you reckon you can get me some of that mascara?”

  
**_(:3 」∠)_ ɴᴏᴡ ʟᴏᴀᴅɪɴɢ…**

  
The applause seemed louder than usual that night. Maybe it was the effects of the Preludin, but it had to count for something.

So the next night, Paul and Stu walked over to Astrid’s place again and did each others’ makeup.

And the next night.

And the next.

And so on.

Up until the band had to go back to Liverpool that summer. Stuart told Paul he wanted to stay in Hamburg and earn a teaching degree at the local art college. So he was quitting the band. And he did that. Paul said goodbye.

But it wasn’t as if they couldn’t send letters, right?

Paul liked Stu’s letters. He checked the mailbox every day for them. They were filled with poems and jokes and later that year, the artist even sent him chords and notes paired with song lyrics. Stuart’s songs were very pretty with poetic words and pleasant rhythms. Paul sat in his room and played them to himself. He wrote letters back to Stu, promising that when they got famous that he would play his songs for him in front of everybody. Stuart wrote back, jokingly making Paul promise to split the profits.

During Christmas of 1961, Stu and Astrid came to visit England. Paul noticed right away that the artist looked very sickly. He was even thinner and paler than Paul remembered, his headaches were very bad and he often fell over and cried. But they still had lots of fun. They made jokes like they did in their letters and got together whenever they got the chance to do makeup together and laugh. Paul told Stu about how it looked as if George had been wearing mascara lately and that the guitarist wouldn’t admit it when confronted but he seemed to be very proud. Stu grinned.

A few weeks later, Stuart went back to Hamburg.

That April, the Beatles were due for another set in Germany. Paul had brought an assortment of all kinds of new makeup in his suitcase. He couldn’t wait to show Stu.

If only he had known.

  
**_(:3 」∠)_ ɴᴏᴡ ʟᴏᴀᴅɪɴɢ…**

  
Now it was 1963. Pete had gotten the boot and Ringo stepped in. They were now being managed by Brian Epstein. They were very popular now and had to run away from girls as they chased them up and down the street. They had record deals and played at bigger clubs and theatres. Fans sent letters declaring their eternal love for them.

The Beatles had a gig very soon—in an hour or so. Paul had already done his makeup that morning and he looked pretty. He stopped being so flamboyant after Stuart died. He felt as if it wasn’t fair to flaunt himself so soon after his beloved Stu had fallen down. He kept doing it, perhaps as a token of respect, but only subtly.

Today, the sky was cloudy and unforgivingly dull. Paul decided to pay a visit to his old friend.

Stuart’s grave was in a rather hidden graveyard, away from the main roads. Paul had trouble searching, but he didn’t give up and he eventually found his friend’s resting place.

Paul stood before the grave. The wind blew leaves and scattered them all over the cemetery. One briefly landed on Stuart’s headstone and in the fleeting moment the wind picked up again and the leaf flew away.

“My makeup looks nice today, eh?” He murmured, his head lowered. “I bet yours does too, Stu. I’d appreciate it if you’d come out and show me.”

The wind brushed his face. But other than that, nothing.

“C-come on! You can’t just fuckin’ _leave_ me after all we’ve been through!” Paul didn’t meet to shout. When Stuart was still alive, he hated it when Paul yelled at him. But he couldn’t help it. “I just wanted to hang out with you one more time! Is that too much to fuckin’ ask, Stu?”

Paul felt a drop of something roll down his cheek. _Oh no. Oh fucking no._ He brought his trembling hands to his face, resisting the urge to wipe. _I can’t cry. Not now! I’m going to ruin my mascara!_

But it was too late. Before he could stop himself, tears were streaming down his face and he couldn’t do anything. The guitarist stood there, quivering violently with his head in his hands.

“I miss you so fucking much, you know?” He sobbed grossly and collapsed to his knees. “We were going to have fun together. I wanted to show you all the new eyeshadow I can buy now that I can afford it. And I wanted to put it on you to see how pretty you look.”

The wind howled.

“Is that too much to ask? I thought we were friends!” Paul keeled over, shaking and crying.

“Yer’ fuckin’ nasty, son.”

Paul tensed and felt a hand on his shoulder. John.

“G-go away. I want to talk to Stu.”

“How lonely must one be to want to talk to a fuckin _dead guy?_ Grow up, Macca. He’s not coming back.”

Paul looked up. John widened his eyes.

“Yer face is all fucked up! What happened? I thought you stopped wearing makeup when Stuart d—”

The bassist quickly stood up and shoved John. “I thought you were his friend, too! But I ended up treating him better than you did!”

The auburnet held his hands up. “Woah, woah. Calm it, princess. This isn’t the time for this. I came all this way to look for you. We really gotta go. George and Ringo are already waiting for us. Come on.”

Paul turned back around, sniffling, looking down at Stuart’s grave.

“If we go now, you’ll have time to fix your makeup. You don’t want to show up tonight looking like a crying mess, do you?”

His gaze was still fixed on the ground, but the bassist managed to drag his feet away.

“That’s more like it. Come on now.”

John led Paul away through the rows and rows of headstones. Paul kept glancing over his shoulder. Stu’s grave seemed to get smaller and smaller as they slunk away. He stopped briefly at the exit.

 _Let’s do each others’ makeup again one day, okay, Stuart?_ He called silently into the cemetery, then quickly paced after John. And just like that, he was gone.

From somewhere, Stuart smiled.

_Thanks for making up, McCartney. I’ll hold you to your word._

 

_(:3 」∠)_ ɴᴏᴡ ʟᴏᴀᴅɪɴɢ...

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for sticking with me. Hope you liked the story.
> 
> P. S. I got a message from Stuart Sutcliffe. He said to ask you guys to comment and call Paul a nancy boy. You know the drill.


End file.
